Killer Thriller (Ian Ludlow Thrillers Book 2)

by Lee Goldberg

  Yat Fu liked walking the empty streets of Ordos, as he did on this gray, hazy morning, past the unoccupied skyscrapers and apartment buildings, to Genghis Khan Square to gaze upon the giant statues of two horses rising to face one another on their hind legs, their bodies creating a dramatic arch that framed the skyline.

  At times like this he felt like the last man on earth, the only survivor of a great apocalypse. He found the idea oddly peaceful and relaxing. People only caused him misery. That was why he didn’t feel, like many of his underlings here did, that he’d been exiled to this place. To him Ordos was paradise. No crowds. No fighting for space. No smells of sweat, cooking grease, or piss. No dogs or cats. There was barely any life at all. Not even insects.

  The best thing of all was the silence. It was nearly absolute, giving him the quiet he needed to think, to envision grand schemes like the one unfolding now that would change the world. That silence was broken by the footsteps of Pang Bao coming behind him. The irritation must have shown on Yat’s face because Pang bowed ever so slightly for his superior’s mercy.

  “I’m very sorry to bother you, sir,” Pang said. He had an iPad tucked under his arm. “But it is urgent.”

  “What is it?”

  “Our automated bots continually scan our acquired data for key words and phrases so we can zero in on any communication or information of interest to us.”

  The term “acquired data” referred to the information that they gleaned by hacking into emails, phone calls, databases, and personal devices on a global scale. Those millions of devices and countless streams of communication were constantly being monitored by entire buildings full of servers—the seemingly empty skyscrapers that surrounded him now. Ordos wasn’t really a ghost city. It was a city of servers, the largest “server farm” ever built, constantly crunching a planet’s worth of raw data.

  “I’m aware of what our automatic surveillance does and how it does it,” Yat said. “Are you here to tell me what I already know?”

  The underlings always assumed that their superiors were bureaucrats, interested only in results and completely ignorant of how they were obtained. What none of Yat’s underlings knew, because it was top secret, was that he designed the global hacking technology hidden within this city.

  “My apologies, sir,” Pang said. “A guest at the Nine Dragons hotel in Hong Kong logged in to the Wi-Fi with his laptop last night. Our bot invaded his device and exposed his data to us. We found a very disturbing file on his hard drive. It might be nothing, but . . .”

  Pang handed the iPad to his boss so he could see the file for himself. Yat took the iPad and walked a few steps away so he could read without his underling looking over his shoulder.

  The document, written in English, was a detailed report of China’s efforts to control the United States, its industries, and its people through strategic purchases of key companies and by ensuring, through low labor costs, that devices that connected to the internet were manufactured in China. Those electronic products, including children’s toys, were hardwired with a “back door” that allowed the Ministry of State Security to gather personal data on millions of Americans and keep them under constant surveillance. All that was left to uncover, according to the report, was the nature and timing of “the inciting event” that would allow China to take total control of the United States economy and its people.

  Yat Fu couldn’t believe what he was reading. It was frighteningly accurate. Whoever wrote this report was one discovery away from sabotaging their plan and destroying decades of meticulous and expensive work.

  “Who is the hotel guest who had this file?” Yat asked his underling.

  “An American novelist named Ian Ludlow,” Pang said. “He arrived in Hong Kong last night for the start of principal photography on Straker, a movie based on one of his books.”

  “Isn’t that the movie being financed by Wang Kang for his daughter?”

  “Yes, it is,” Pang said.

  Yat turned his back on Pang and took a moment to consider the details of the report, the timing of Ludlow’s arrival, the links to billionaire Wang Kang, and what it all meant.

  Clearly, Ian Ludlow was an American spy and the Ministry of State Security was absolutely right to be concerned that Wang’s relationship with the West was far too close. Perhaps Wang was a CIA mole. That was a frightening thought given Wang’s knowledge, the secrets he knew, and his hold on the Chinese financial industry. It was a good thing they already had Wang in custody and cut off from the outside world.

  What Yat found intriguing, and a reason for hope, was how they’d obtained the dangerous report and what those circumstances revealed.

  If Ludlow truly believed everything in the report, the spy wouldn’t have logged in to the hotel Wi-Fi and opened his computer up to his adversaries. That mistake told Yat two important things:

  Ian Ludlow’s mission in Hong Kong was to verify the intelligence in the report; and

  the spy didn’t believe that the report was credible . . . at least not yet.

  The second point was particularly interesting to Yat. Perhaps the Americans had purposely selected an agent skeptical of the report to ensure he wouldn’t be swayed by weak evidence. Either way, the discovery of the report and the spy’s arrival in Hong Kong actually offered Yat a great opportunity.

  He would follow Ludlow’s investigation, and plug every leak the spy unknowingly revealed to him along the way, thereby assuring that Yat Fu’s ongoing operation, and its imminent conclusion, wouldn’t be endangered.

  And then he would capture, torture, and kill Ian Ludlow.

  “It might just be a coincidence,” Pang said, “a story the author is researching for one of his thrillers. But given the timing, and Wang’s involvement, I thought you should see it.”

  “You did the right thing.” Yat turned to face Pang again. “I appreciate it. Who else knows about this file?”

  “Right now, only you and me.”

  “Keep it that way.” Yat didn’t want this intelligence failure to get back to Beijing before he could demonstrate that he’d solved it. Otherwise, Yat was afraid that President Xiao might abort the final stage of their operation, after decades of work and billions of dollars in expense, even though they were so close to success.

  “But I want Ludlow under constant and total visual, audio, digital, and personal surveillance,” Yat added. If anybody in Beijing asked about it, he’d explain that it was part of his ongoing investigation into Wang Kang’s activities, which wasn’t far from the truth. Those were always the most effective lies. “Mobilize every resource that we have.”

  “Including the assassins?”

  “Especially the assassins,” Yat said.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Wang Studios, Hong Kong. July 2. 9:45 a.m. Hong Kong Time.

  The Wang Studios lot in Kowloon was just as drab and industrial as any movie studio complex in the United States, at least the ones that didn’t double as amusement parks. The studio was made up of a dozen soundstages, several office buildings, and a “backlot” of fake Hong Kong streets and building facades, all safely tucked away behind the high wall that surrounded the property.

  Susie handed Ian and Margo each a lanyard with an ID badge as they walked from their car in the parking lot to the soundstages.

  “Wear these lanyards around your neck while you’re here,” she said. “They will give you access to the entire lot and get you through security when we are shooting on location in the city.”

  “Cool,” Margo said.

  Susie stopped in the road that ran between one of the soundstages and a four-story office building.

  “This soundstage is where they keep the stunt cars and motorcycles. P. J. is in there now, meeting with the second-unit director. P. J. is expecting you. My office is over there.” She gestured to the office building. “Third floor, room 303, if you need anything or simply a couch to crash on.”

  “I could crash right now,” Margo said.

  �
�We have work to do.” Ian tugged Margo by the strap of her big shoulder bag and headed for the soundstage door.

  Margo went along with him but watched Susie go into the office building.

  “What work do I have to do?”

  “You’re supposed to be researching my next novel,” he said, “not a lesbian sex manual.”

  “I’ve got your research itinerary all planned out but there’s nothing for me to do until you’re done here.”

  “That’s not true.” Ian opened the soundstage door. “Seeing what they’re doing on the Straker movie might give you some ideas for my novel.”

  He walked inside and she followed him. The soundstage was essentially a large warehouse that was ordinarily used for filming scenes on sets. But now it was being used to hold the various stunt and camera vehicles. At the far end of the soundstage, a group of men were huddled around a bank of monitors, watching footage.

  Ian walked past several motorcycles and four red-and-white Toyota taxis, one of which had a roll cage on top of the passenger cabin. The roll cage had a driver’s seat, a steering wheel, and gas and brake pedals. He hadn’t seen a rig like this before.

  “You’re just cock blocking me,” Margo said.

  “You don’t have a cock.”

  The taxi was also fitted with a camera mount and a seat for the cameraman on the outside of the driver’s side door. There was another stationary camera mount on the hood.

  “I have a rubber one,” she said.

  “You brought a dildo to China?” Ian asked.

  “I never leave home without it.” Margo gave her shoulder bag a shake and flashed a mischievous smile.

  That’s when the director, P. J. Tyler, spotted Ian and called out to him.

  “Ian, you made it! Welcome to the eye of the storm.”

  P. J. came over and pulled Ian into a hug, nearly breaking Ian’s sternum with the camera viewfinder that the director constantly wore around his neck, even when he wasn’t shooting a movie. The director claimed it was because he never knew when inspiration would strike for a shot, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. It was so everybody, especially women, would know that P. J. was a director. P. J. looked over Ian’s shoulder at Margo, let go of him, and offered her his hand.

  “I’m P. J. Tyler,” he said.

  She shook his hand. “I’m Margo French, Ian’s muse.”

  “Mine is right here.” P. J. clapped Ian on the back. “It all starts with the words. Did you read the new draft of the script?”

  “I haven’t had a chance,” Ian said. He didn’t want to get pulled into a discussion about the script at that moment, or ever, though he had his copy in the messenger bag that was over his shoulder in case there was no way to avoid it.

  “You’re in for a thrill ride. It’s much more visceral than the last one. This new team of writers really gets it. They worked with me on T.J. Hooker: The Movie so they understand how I think. I want all of my movies to be an extremely visceral experience.”

  “I watched T.J. Hooker on the plane,” Margo said. “I definitely had a visceral reaction. I was glad that every seat came with a—”

  Ian gave her a warning look from behind P. J.’s back and she said:

  “—seat belt.”

  Ian signed with relief. He was certain she was going to say barf bag.

  “Chris Pine should have gotten an Oscar as Hooker,” P. J. said, “but the Academy is biased against action movies.”

  P. J. turned, put his arm around Ian’s shoulders, and led him over to the bank of monitors, where three burly-looking American stuntmen were intently watching bits and pieces of the taxi chase through Kowloon.

  “Most directors would settle for what these guys have already shot, film the actors in a parked car in front of a green screen, and use CGI to cut them into the action. Not me. I’m going for a more visceral experience.” P. J. gestured to the taxi with the roll cage on top. “I’ll be filming Wang Mei at the wheel during her wild, explosive ride. I like the actors to physically experience every smash and every crash. The secret is that they aren’t actually in control of the cars. Our stuntmen are driving the vehicles from the cages on top.”

  “Even so,” Ian said, “the actors could get killed.”

  “That’s the key. If it’s visceral for the actors, it will be visceral for the audience. That’s how I make movies.” P. J. clapped Ian on the back again like they were old pals, which they weren’t. Ian had met him briefly only once before. They had lunch at a taco wagon in Santa Monica and P. J. spent half the time looking at women with his viewfinder. “I’ve got to let you go. I’ve got to prepare for some camera tests with Wang Mei. We’re filming her shots in the chase later this week. Have you met her?”

  “Not yet,” Ian said.

  “She’s the Asian Jennifer Lawrence.” P. J. leaned close to Ian’s ear. “Though I would have preferred Jennifer Lawrence. But it’s the Chinese financing from her father’s studio that got this movie made, so we compromised.”

  “Is she good?” Margo asked.

  “Yeah, but let’s just say that nobody is ever going to call Jennifer Lawrence the American Wang Mei.” P. J. shifted his attention back to Ian. “Will you be around later for the table read?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” Ian said, though he really wanted to.

  “Of course not. They’re your words.”

  “Actually, they’re not,” Ian said.

  “They are in the sense that they are different words that say the same thing as your words, only with extra intensity, so the effect is much more—”

  “Visceral,” Ian said.

  “Exactly. You ought to go say hi to Damon. He’s in his trailer, right outside the soundstage, doing a wardrobe fitting.” P. J. pointed to another door, on the far side of the soundstage.

  “I won’t be intruding?” Ian asked.

  “He can’t wait to meet you. He carries your book with him everywhere he goes.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Ian and Margo exited the soundstage into a roadway lined with trailers—small motor homes for the actors and much larger, specialized wagons where their hair and makeup were done. They were barely out the door when they nearly collided with Wang Mei and her two Chinese bodyguards as they were coming in.

  Wang Mei was in her early twenties and had a fragile beauty, as if she might shatter into a thousand radiant pieces if she fell. The two stocky, thick-necked men in business suits who flanked her made no effort to hide their profession. They wore stony expressions and they each had an earpiece that kept them in contact with other operatives elsewhere.

  “Excuse me, Wang Mei?” Ian asked.

  The two men immediately blocked her, becoming a great wall of Chinese muscle.

  “Step back,” one of the bodyguards said, but Ian didn’t actually see his lips move.

  “I’m Ian Ludlow, the author of the Straker books.”

  Wang Mei smiled and reached her arm between her two bodyguards to offer Ian her hand. “Oh yes, I heard you were coming. I’m delighted to meet you.”

  “Likewise.” Ian took her hand, practically pulling her forward, forcing the two men to part and let her through.

  She glared at the bodyguards. “I apologize for my bodyguards. They can be overprotective.”

  “It’s understandable,” Ian said, releasing her hand. “They must be edgy ever since your father was kidnapped.”

  “My father wasn’t kidnapped. That’s Western media propaganda,” Mei said. “He’s in Beijing being treated for a very serious medical condition.”

  It was almost word-for-word what the Chinese government said in its press release. And Yat Fu, watching from 1,500 miles away in Ordos, was pleased that she quoted it so accurately.

  Classified Location, Kangbashi District, Ordos, Inner Mongolia, China. July 2. 10:30 a.m. China Standard Time.

  “Wise answer,” Yat Fu said, standing in his control center, looking at the image on the big screen being transmitted from the button cameras on the two Mi
nistry of State Security agents who were acting as her bodyguards. He was getting a chest-eye view of Ian Ludlow, Margo French, and Wang Mei’s back.

  “Do you think she knows that we’re listening?” Pang Bao asked from his seat at his console. The other operatives in the room worked silently at their keyboards, panning through the mud of hacked data from around the world for flecks of intelligence gold.

  “No, but she knows that her bodyguards are,” Yat said.

  Actually, the two bodyguards weren’t paying any attention to the conversation. Their mission was to keep Wang Mei in custody without actually locking her up. She was a dog on a very short leash.

  Wang Studios, Hong Kong. July 2. 10:31 a.m. Hong Kong Time.

  “But you’re right about one thing, Ian—they are here to protect me,” Wang Mei said, then got a mischievous glint in her eye. “Otherwise, I could be abducted and sold to some deranged Arab sheik for his harem of Asian sex slaves.”

  “That sounds like it could be the plot of one of Ian’s novels,” Margo said.

  “I know,” Mei said. “I’ve read them all.”

  Ian doubted that, but it was nice of her to say.

  Margo offered Mei her hand. “I’m Margo French, Ian’s personal trainer.”

  Mei shook it. “I’ve heard that all Americans have one.”

  “We all have personal chefs, too,” Margo said.

  “You can’t believe anything Margo tells you,” Ian said. “The only chef I have is Chef Boyardee.”

  Mei smiled politely. Ian realized that she had no idea what he was talking about. “I hope you are not too disappointed with me.”

  “No, no, of course not.” Ian immediately regretted his remark. “It was an obscure reference to a brand of canned spaghetti. It was a stupid thing for me to say. I’m disappointed in myself for saying it.”